Zero Resistance
by The Sneezing Panda
Summary: Post-finale. What would you do if you could change your future? What would you say if you had one last chance? Jammy; smut.


_A/N: This is a little continuation of Fault Lines. A little late, I know, but I just thought of it. Well, technically I thought of it in fourth period... Anyway, just know that this a little AU because Ed didn't get shot. I just wanted to focus on the Jammy (big surprise there). Without further adieu, I reveal to you Zero Resistance!_

Disclaimer: I do not own Flashpoint or any of its characters.

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><p>Zero Resistance<p>

_by The Sneezing Panda_

The heels of your shoes clack against the tiles laid out on the floor beneath your feet; the floor that leads the way down the corridor to his apartment. The door, lacquered in a royal blue, numbered '1008', seems to increase as you close the distance. Your pace slows as you near that door, you hesitate, and for a moment, you contemplate marching right back down to your jeep. But something is there, some sort of magnetic pull is drawing you to that door, and you don't turn around. You speed up, and charge on down that hallway with an air of confidence, your head held high.

Suddenly, the door is there, and that feeling of anxiety and nervousness rushes back and fills your senses. The hand that was slowly lifting itself in preparation to knock on that door abruptly stops. Fear. It is fear that paralyses you. It is fear that consumes you. You remind yourself you hadn't come this far only to walk away at a second chance. You are there, standing before his door, to make amends; to right your wrongs. You know he would never send you away, because you are you. You know him. You love him. You know he loves you back.

You ask yourself what is stopping you.

The fist that is in the air, mere inches away from the solid wood, drives into the surface. not once, not twice, but four times. Your knocks reverberate through the empty, dimly lit hallway, they resonate through the small confinement of his apartment. You know he heard you. He calls to you. You, standing before that door, are the last person he expects to see. You are aware of that. You accept it. You are not his, nor is he yours. Not anymore.

The door swings open and reveals his large form. To say he is disillusioned would be an understatement.

You try to reassure yourself everything will work out, but nothing can stop you from shifting your feet or fiddling your fingers or staring up at him with those doe eyes you know he has a soft spot for.

His penetrating gaze makes you uneasy. You incline your head in permission to enter his abode, as speech dies on your lips. He understands- you understand each other. You are counterparts. No words are needed.

His eyes tell you nothing but his confusion, but his body language speaks thousands. He shifts to a right- a sign he has granted you permission. With unspoken words, he tells you you are welcome in his home. You will always be welcome.

Gallantly, you step forward. One large step toward him, invading his personal space. You pause, your eyes not leaving him once. He doesn't back away. His eyes follow yours, tracking your movement. Your bodies are close. You share a connection- mind, body, and soul. An intimacy like no other, an intimacy you are unable to share with any other man, because he is _your_ man. It is not written in stone, it is, however, there; unofficially.

You are sharing the same oxygen, his breath is fanning your face. Perhaps that is what he wants, maybe it is what _you _want, as well. But you are not here for that. The resistance, it is hard. Difficult. You can't pull back. Years of training, years of the police force, and you _can't _pull back. Facing your ex is harder than taking down a gunman, you find.

You sidestep to the right and pass him as you make your way into his familiar home. You can see where he made you dinner, where he made you breakfast and even lunch. You remember where the bathroom is, where his bedroom is, and, hell- even where he keeps his favourite cereal. Over a year it's been, and you can still recall the exact places he made love to you, and you to him.

The click of the lock signals the shutting of the door, and extracts you from your revery. Your memories. His hand is on your shoulder, idle, the only movement is that of his thumb caressing the thin skin on your shoulder blade. He can still send goosebumps up your spine.

You don't turn around, even as another hand joins the other. You don't twitch, flinch, or shy away from his touch when his hands begin to massage your tense muscles in a soothe, steady rhythm. Why would you? The feeling is all too damn good.

He tries to comfort you- reassure you that everything will turn out okay. And suddenly, you realize _why_ he let you in. _Why_his hands are on your body, kneading away the knots. To console you in the aftermath of the hectic day. He is your friend. You let yourself believe he loved you more than that. Now, you are not sure. You start to believe that is all he will ever be. That's not what you want. Tears spring in your eyes, and you blink them away. You are strong. You must be strong.

You are startled when you feel his lips on your neck; nipping, sucking, soothing. You roll your head to the right to give him more access, you lean into his broad chest when his arms find themselves around your waist. You give in. You don't let go.

Because maybe, deep down, that _is _what you want; to know he wants you.

There is zero resistance when he spins you around and takes control. You let him kiss you like he did at the Royal York. You respond with equal passion. You've never been kissed like this. You, yourself, have never kissed like this.

There is no space left between your bodies. Closer, that's what you want. That's what he wants. You struggle to get closer.

You need him. With his growing erection pressed against your stomach, you know he needs you, as well. You break the kiss, panting, and take his hand. You find it ironic _you're _the one leading _him _to _his _bedroom.

As soon as you pass through the wide-open entrance of his room, he has you pinned against the wall, leg wormed in between yours. You moan at the friction- light and teasing. His hands tug at your cardigan, you let him shrug it off. You're shoulders are exposed, covered only by the thin blue straps of your sundress. His wands wander to those straps, and with his eyes focused on yours, he pushes them away and off your shoulders. You don't watch the dress fall into a pool of blue, but the darkening blue hue of his eyes.

You step out of your heels; the height difference is dramatic. All in a matter of seconds, he is a head taller than you. He has the superiority, you reckon.

Standing there in your bra and panties, you feel it is about time he lost some clothing. You tug at the hem of his azure t-shirt, he gets the message and lifts his arm. Hastily, you throw the shirt away as his arms return at your sides. Your hands are drawn to his defined, broad chest.

When he pulls you into a deep kiss that leaves you breathless, you decide you can't wait for this man any longer. Forward, you gently push him, until the back of his knees hit his bed. You nudge his chest, and he falls back onto the sheets, bringing you down with him with a tug at your wrist. You straddle his waist as his fingers wander to the clasp of your lacy white bra located snugly in between your breasts. Expertly, he flicks the clasp and lets the material descend your body.

In the blink of an eye, you are on your back, pinned underneath him. You gasp as he lowers his mouth onto your breast; your fingers weave through his short hair and your back arches as his tongue rolls over your nipple and kneads the other with an ample hand. His free hand glides down your sun-kissed skin to your center, where he applies the lightest of pressure. His finger pushes past the edge of your panties, however, his attempt it halted when you catch his wrist. You don't want the foreplay; the year of need was enough.

Instead, he reaches for the button of his jeans, of which he pops open and shucks off. His pants are quickly followed by his boxers that are kicked aside. In a flash, he is above you, his royal blue eyes gazing into your soul. You feel bare- both physically, and emotionally, beneath him.

He hooks his thumbs on the sides of your panties and pulls then away from your hips, settles himself on top of you, and plunges in.

His name escapes your lips; your ankles hook around his body; your hands run down his back, leaving red marks with your nails. You are smothered with a kiss as he thrusts harder, faster, deeper.

Your lips break away from his for a fraction of a second as you breathe in strife. Your fingers lace in his blonde hair and pull as he hits the spot. You trace his lips with your tongue, eliciting a moan from your counterpart.

Goosebumps erupt across your skin as he runs his hand across your chest and down your stomach, coming at a stop at your hips. Your legs tighten around his waist and your muscles clench around him, threatening to give at any moment.

Your bodies slam together as you lift your hips to meet his thrusts. You struggle to breath as euphoria spreads through your veins, building your climax. You let out a moan that evolves into a scream as your vision goes white and your body shudders with an intense orgasm. He buries his head in the crook of your neck, his teeth scrap against your collarbone when he thrusts one last time, releasing a low, feral growl.

He braces an arm on the mattress next to your shoulder, not wanting to crush you as he falls. Slowly, he slides off your body and lays beside you; panting, gasping for air. He drapes an arm around your waist and hugs you tightly to his chest. His lips press against the back of your neck and linger; the skin he gently kissed forever burns.

His hurried heartbeats pound against your ear. Steadily, they decrease to a regular pace as his climax wears off.

You grasp his hand and hold it close to your heart.

Sated; you are sated. A year of losing your mind because the resistance was too much. The overpowering long and need was finally sated.

You find it easy to slip into this position, molded against him as if you two were made for each other. Because, you were made for each other. This is where you belong. Next to him, in his heart, and him in yours.

Connected; mind, body, and soul.

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><p><em>Ugh, very short. But hey! It's finally done! :D<em>

_So...was it an enjoyable read?_


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